Identity X (23 page)

“OK,” Mark said. 
He took a deep breath. 
“Give the order.” 

As he watched Forrester pick up the
intercom and depress the button, he listened as the static faded away.  In its
place he heard a jumble of muffled words as they rolled off Forrester’s tongue,
slipping greasily into the microphone and no longer properly audible to Mark. 
He sat back down at the workstation in front of him with his fingers interwoven
like the strands of hair in a braid, pulled tight and captive and he rested his
lips onto them.  He didn’t hear Forrester as he gave the order, and there was
no machismo left.  Instead he quietly and privately closed his eyes, said
goodbye to Ben, and prayed for forgiveness for what he was about to do.

In the near
distance, the
white walls of the small cottage glistened as
if they were neon, the daylight beginning to fade and the first rays of
moonlight scattering down through the dusky sky.  The moisture from the forest
floor began to rise, forming a carpet of mist which hung close to the abundant
ferns.  One by one, the agents constructed their circumferential border between
the cottage and the real world, and now whatever lay inside its wooden walls
belonged to The Agency.  The team leader positioned himself with his knees in the
broken undergrowth, and he listened out
for
the breaking of twigs, each snap almost
undetectable, but to him
indicated
another agent in place who
would be ready at his command.  Viewing the small screen before him, he could
detect a faint heat signal inside the cottage, stationary and weak, perhaps
secondary to the damp air.  There was no smoke rising from the chimney, and the
signal was too weak to be a fire.  It had to be a person, one that was cold and
wet, almost hypothermic.

He raised his finger to his ear and
pushed in the small ear piece a little further to hear the instructions as they
were relayed to him. 

“In position approximately twenty meters
from target.  It’s a boathouse.  I repeat.  Boathouse.  Over.”

His calculations were accurate, and he
had a good complement of men in place forming the border that they had
created.  He stood by as instructed.  He reached down to his thigh, and felt
instinctively for the handgun as it sat holstered to his leg.  His fingers knew
exactly where it was; trained well for speed and accuracy they would move to
the gun and take hold of it without the need for sight or conscious thought. 
In the dead of night, in the blackest of rooms, he knew each member of his team
could handle the weapons strapped to them as if it were no more an extension of
one of their hands.  Each piece had been handpicked individually, selected
after rigorous training and experience.  As he breathed silently his breath
formed small clouds in front of his face which served only to camouflage him
further in the rising mist.  It transported him to a time when he had been
stationed on the cusp of enemy lines, awaiting orders in faraway lands to the
point that he could almost smell the burning tyres and Middle Eastern spices. 
He could hear the simple rattle of metal and plastic as each agent checked over
his own choice of weapon, readying it so that when the time came there were no
questions asked, and that he was as ready as he was required to be.  They would
rally to his signal, weapon in hand and ready to shoot, no guilt allowed.

Raising his fingers to his ear once more
as he heard the break in static he listened to Forrester’s words clearly as he
gave the instruction.  Immediately, and without delay he clicked his fingers as
he raised his arm in front of him, a right angle formed with his fingers
pointing directly into the sky.  With two short strokes forward, his fingers
indicated to the men either side that it was time.  They relayed the message to
the rest of the agents, the signal spreading as fast as fire through dry
woodland, without hindrance or impediment.  The leader stalked like a wildcat,
his legs low creeping silently through the land, hidden in the shadows as he
crept towards the target.  On point, his team fell into line behind him, a
death snake winding towards the cottage.  Standing at the side of the front
door, the point man waited for the rest of his team to fall into place, their
arms loaded and minds alert; nothing will get past them this time.  They have
only one instruction.  Shoot to kill. 

Other agents swarmed around him,
encircling their leading man and taking up their positions.   Others slipped
into place around the sides and back of the building, and he waited until he
noticed the final men in position, indicating that the building was
surrounded.  Those at the front knew their destination once that door was open,
left or right, push forward or hold back.  The leader noted the final agent
taking the steps two at a time, bringing him within striking distance of the
front door.  This final agent held the breaker in his hands, blunt and hanging
low.  The rest of the agents held their weapons up near their shoulders,
stacked in next to each other in two rows either side of the door.  The breaker
moved in close and began swinging the ram back and forth, feeling the inertia
of its weight.  The leader took a final confirmatory look around.  With his
finger on his ear piece listening out for instruction, he raised his eyes
towards the agent stood expectantly at the door and gave a single sharp nod of
the head.  The breaker took all of his might and placed it squarely behind the
battering ram, his knuckles white tight underneath his leather gloves. 

Pulling it back as if he and the
battering ram were one, he transferred every mite of strength through his arms
and into the ram, before delivering it just underneath the door handle.  The
silence of the forest was shattered as the wood splinted, but the door remained
fixed in place.  One more recoil and delivery, and the ram bore down onto the
door once more.  The wood burst open like sparks as they rained down from a
firework as the integrity failed and the door flew open.  Each agent filtered
into the room past the leader and took up their position, improvising by
finding security behind settees and the very chair where Ben had sat only one
hour before.  The two most advanced agents scanned the front of the living
area, circling the kitchen units and small cottage style dining table.  There
were some scattered pieces of tissue on the table and the floor which attracted
their attention, and with a click of his fingers another agent motioned to the
pot of congealed red gunk left on top of the cooker.  One by one the agents
filtered through the house, clearing each room, smashing in doors and opening
cupboards as they conducted their search. 

“What did you find?” the leader asked as
he walked into the living room and saw his most senior agent returning towards
him, empty handed.

“Sir, there is nothing here.  We searched
the whole place.” 

The leader placed his fingers to his ears
and spoke into the small headset mouthpiece.

“Nothing?” Forrester said as he heard the
relay that the search had proven futile.  The team leader checked his screen
for the signal trace again. 

“We are still reading the signal.  Is
there a basement?” he said as he looked up to the agents which surrounded him. 
Several agents started another search for a trap door.  They knew that there
was no internal door left unchecked so the only thing left would be a trapdoor
in the floorboards.  They pulled the settee and chairs back, kicking them away
revealing nothing but solid floorboards.  Another team in the bedroom
simultaneously lifted the weight of the bed frame as if it were no heavier than
a book, and again confirmed the absence of an escape route.

“There is nothing here, Sir,” replied the
leader over the headpiece, confirming that the search of the bedrooms had
proven fruitless.  The background confusion of the Surveillance Centre was once
again replaced by static until he heard a voice from inside the room.

“Sir, take a look at this.”

He turned to see the once neatly position
ed
coffee table discarded to the side, and
the rug that was once covering the exposed floorboards also tossed away.  An
agent was bent down on one knee as if set for a romantic proposal and held up a
small black box that could in many situations be a speaker, or
a
child’s walkie-talkie.  But he recognised
that it was a transmitter immediately.  He had seen them hundreds of times
before, and used them just as many.  As he took the device and released the
transmit button he heard a voice in his ear from Headquarters relay ‘we’ve lost
him’. 

“Sir, I think that this is our heat
signal.”  Another agent held up the large pot of red dough like mixture, still
warm from the preparation of the smoke bombs. 

The leader tossed the transmitter aside
in frustration, sending angular shards of plastic scattering to the floor as
the lightweight transmitter shattered into broken pieces.  He held down the
transmit button on his earpiece and waited as Forrester took receipt of his
call and cleared his secure line. 

“Sir, the signal is just a transmitter. 
The target remains unsecured.  I repeat.  The target remains unsecured.”

“What?!”  Mark jumped to his feet as if
his chair had caught alight, and sent it toppling behind him.  “Ben wouldn’t
know the first thing about what to do with a transmitter.  They have lost him!”
he bellowed as he pointed an accusatory finger at the
red lights on the
main screen, implicating each
and every agent as a failure.  Mark scrambled his fingers across the desk in
front of him looking for a head set with which he could communicate directly to
the team.  He caught another communications officer by surprise as he snatched
at the headset that was on his juniors head.  Ramming it into place, he
bypassed Forrester and spoke directly to the field agent.

“Jedi
twenty one, this is Mark Ballantyne.  What exactly have you found?”

“Sir,
we tracked the signal, but it’s coming from a transmitter.  There is nobody
here.  Somebody was here, but they left.”

“Surveillance
to Jedi, do you read me, over?” Forrester interrupted, livid at the flagrant
loss of anonymity across communication channels.

“Copy
that.  Go ahead, over.”

“Can
you confirm for me what’s there at the scene?  What type of transmitter have
you found?”

“Is
Mr. Ballantyne still there?” said the agent, having no other choice but to use
his name.

“We
are both listening,” confirmed Mark.

“The
transmitter.  It’s one of ours,
Sir.  O
ver.” 
Mark looked at Forrester, who mirrored his expression of gormless astonishment.

“Jedi,
what are you saying?  That it’s our equipment there?”  Mark couldn’t believe
that.  The shock and disbelief was obvious in his voice, which had gone up a
whole octave.

“That’s
what it looks like, Sir.”  Mark raced over to the station where the technician
was still desperately working to get the satellite up and running.  He wanted
to know where they were.  Exactly.

“I
want eyes on the ground.  Get me that location,” he ordered as he approached
the workbench.  Forrester was joining him, and as respectfully as he could with
his frayed patience and awareness of Mark at his side, nudged the technician
out of his seat and took over.  Within moments he could see the screen
gradually increasing in clarity as the pixels increased in number, bringing the
cottage into view.  “Where is that?” asked Mark.

“Just
a moment, and we’ll have it better.”  Forrester played with the settings, and
sure enough, his years of experience were put to good use as the image of the
white cottage came into view.  As the picture loaded and Forrester rotated the
image in order to bring the walls and the once perfectly constructed front door
into view, Mark took an audible breath in as he realised the familiar sight
before him.  “Where is that?” Forrester asked.

Mark
didn’t have time to answer as he pulled the headset from his ears and tossed it
back down on the table.  Racing up the steps he burst through the double doors,
leaving behind him nothing but a room full of confused faces.

With every step
that
Mark
took towards his office, his anger grew to a capacity that he had
never expected or felt the presence of before.  As he paced through the bright
white corridors devoid of life with almost the whole department on the tail of
nothing more than a transmitter, there were no other sounds to muffle the clip
clop of his footsteps as they ticked along like a second hand counting down
time, a constant reminder that it could be too late.

As he
turned the corner into the corridor which connected to his office, he breathed
.
 
At the other end of the corridor stood Hannah, gripping Matthew in her arms,
his legs wrapped around her waist.  Mark quickened his pace, and he saw that as
he inched closer and closer towards her, she too took longer strides.  Hannah
was laden though with a child, and Matthew slowed her down.  There was only one
set of stairs between them, and from the
judgement
that he could make whilst moving, he was
closer than she was.  The brow of the stairs became his only focus, a way to
block her exit, and without hassle or conflict get her into his office.  His
best weapon for negotiation was in her arms, and there was no way that once he
had her there, that she or Ben would escape him again. 

As he
reached the top of the staircase, he could see the hesitation in her stride as
she realised that she would no longer be able to get there before him.  Her
pace stuttered and she almost tripped over her feet as she came to a sudden
stop, only a meter and a half away from the stairs and her only safe exit.  She
looked at her watch.  She had less than five minutes left.

“Catherine,
are you in a hurry?”  His voice was kind, amiable, but the simplicity and
softness of his words was a mere mask.  The ice cold sensation they instilled
as they picked up the hairs on her arms seemed more menacing than anything she
had ever before experienced in his presence.  She knew something was wrong
immediately.

“Um,
no.  Not in a hurry,” she lied.  “Just want to get this little man home.”  She
smiled a half smile and ruffled Matthew’s hair.  His fingers gripped like claws
around her shoulders.  As Mark approached them she instinctively took a step
backwards, but it was foolish for it betrayed her fear and simultaneously her
guilt.  Matthew however had no such guard, and giggled affectionately as Mark
reached out to touch his face.

“You’re
a bit of a big boy to be carried aren’t you?” he said to Matthew, who from the
grumpy frown that spread across his face agreed with Mark’s sentiment.

“Mummy
said I had to be carried.”  He hung his face to cover his shame at the
overbearing nature of his mother’s control and seeming lack of understanding of
his desire to appear grown up and independent.

“Come
on,” Mark said as he reached out to place his hands under Matthew’s armpits in
an attempt to hoist him clear from his mother’s grip.  Hannah held on tight and
took another step backwards.  She hitched Matthew upwards and as her hand
cupped the back of his head, she pulled his face in towards her, fighting
against his considerable strength and the pull towards freedom.

“I
just want to get him home, as you said.  It’s best for him now.”

“Sorry,
Catherine,” he said as he took another step closer.  “We have a few minor
details that need to be rectified before you leave.”  His eyes lingered on the
back of Matthew’s head as he picked at the locks of his hair with meticulous
anthropoidal precision, before turning back to face Hannah.  “Before either of
you leave.”

“Mummy,”
Matthew asked, “why is Uncle Mark calling you Catherine?”

“It’s
just a silly game, baby,” she said, smiling as much to reassure herself as
Matthew.

“No
Matthew, Mummy is wrong.  It’s not a silly game.”  Matthew, encouraged by his
inclusion in the conversation fought labouriously against the weakening grip of
his mother, squirming with the willowy flexibility of youth.  Soon Matthew was
looking at Mark, but found no common meeting point, and instead saw that Mark’s
eyes were fixated on Hannah.  Matthew looked back up to his mother’s face,
white as an Ionian villa, and whilst he was too young to recognise the presence
of fear in the face of another, her pallor and latent expression made him
uneasy.  “But she will realise her mistake now, and will come with me so that
we can solve our little problem.  Anyway Matthew, you must have missed Daddy, and
he is on his way now to meet us here.”  Before she could summon the diminishing
strength in her arms, Matthew had contorted his way free, wriggling wormlike to
the ground, and in the passing moments of paralysis she noted how Mark’s arm
had slipped effortlessly around Matthew’s shoulder. 

For a
moment she watched in shock as Mark led Matthew away, dumfounded and clinging
to the rail of the stairway that should have been her getaway only moments
before.  She looked at her watch.  Four minutes.  She had no choice but to
follow Mark.  Up until now she had pushed forwards like a rampant tsunami wave,
pushing onwards bringing forth destruction, flattening any object that stood in
her path.  Yet now as she stood as a lifeless victim watching Mark spirit away her
son, she was left behind amongst the debris, the tatters of life laying
scattered about her feet.  But with their backs to her and some distance
between them it gave her enough space to think and reconsider a new path.  It
gave her enough time to remember the steel holstered on her hip, and how she
was faster than Mark every single time.  She picked up her pace, and with only
a hairs distance between them, so that if she had reached out she would have
been able to brush her fingers against the downy hairs on the back of Matthew’s
neck, she drew her weapon.

“No
further Mark.  Stand where you are.”  He heard the familiar click as she slid
back the top section of the weapon, engaging the bullet in its rightful
position.  She pressed the barrel of the gun into his side, pushing it deeply,
directing the nose of it up inside his shoulder blade.  She angled it so that
in a single shot she could strike his heart with a trajectory that would miss
Matthew in any of the scenarios that she calculated.  He stood still, but
Matthew had not comprehended the situation, and looked back towards his
mother.  “Matthew, don’t turn around, and close your eyes.”

He
did instinctively as his mother told him, whipping his head back and squeezing
his eyes shut, wrinkling up the youthful skin around them.  Mark also turned
his head, just enough to get a side eye glimpse
of
Hannah.  He could see her bent up arm
and clenched jaw, and the pushing that he felt in his side was unmistakable as
she thrust the gun in a little harder.  It was a sensation that he had never
had before, but knew without any doubts what it was.

“Do
you think I am stupid Catherine?”  He allowed a tiny smirk of a smile to creep
over his thin mendacious lips, and the sight of them made her feel physically
sick.  “Take a look underneath my jacket, on the left.”  Her first thought was
that Matthew was also on the left side of him, and immediately she feared for
what she may discover as she realised that his right arm was not hanging by his
side, but instead
was
wrapped around
his belly in the direction of Matthew.  She lifted up the flap of his jacket to
see his milky white hand curled around
a
gun, his bony finger
s
placed on the trigger and the nose
angled towards Matthew’s body.  Every thought
of
escape fell away from her, peeling away
like old paint and crumbling to the floor.  Her right hand which had until now
been pressed against Mark’s back fell away in submission, knowing there was no
more room for negotiation.  There was a gun aimed at her son.  No matter what else
happened, she could not so blatantly risk his life.

“That’s
better.  Matthew,” he said, as he ruffled his fingers through his hair, “you
better open your eyes now.”  He stood there, eyes clenched, disobedient of his
command.

“It’s
OK baby, do as Uncle Mark says.”  Her words repulsed every fibre of her body as
she began to retch them out of her, telling her son to obey the command of the
man whose malevolence bordered on iniquity.  She watched as Mark patted his
fair curls back into place, and then rested his hand down onto his shoulder. 
Matthew opened his eyes, and for a moment Hannah felt she could see the look of
understanding on his face, that somewhere in the moments of blindness he had
seen the truth, and that Mark was not to be trusted. 

“Now
you run towards my office and go and sit in the big chair.  My chair.  Mummy
and I are following.”  He handed Matthew his access card and told him to swipe
it against the screen outside the door.  Matthew looked towards his mother, who
nodded her head reassuringly, and although he remained hesitant, Matthew walked
towards Mark’s office.  Turning to Hannah, the once established requisite for a
level of professional communication lost to the past, he snatched the gun from
her grip.

“Catherine,
get the fuck in my office.”

She
followed behind Matthew who had heard the way in which Mark had just spoken to
his mother and would testify that he didn’t much care for it.  He himself was
not permitted to use such language and on the one occasion that he had done so
it had resulted in an almighty scolding from his father.  He had established
that Uncle Mark was in a bad mood, and perhaps it would be best to do as he
said.  Hannah could see just up ahead as Matthew turned to take a quick look
backwards before stepping inside Mark’s office.  She sneaked a glance at her
watch and could see that she had only three minutes left until she was supposed
to call Ben.
 
She thought about him sitting
in the car, the three passports to a new life in his hands, watching his wrist
as the seconds ticked down.  She thought about the plans of the building which
she had studied extensively as a student and tried to recall all of the exits
and the corridors that potentially could lead her to safety.  She thought about
how now with Mark behind her and Matthew just entering his office her options
were so limited.  Matthew stood and watched as his mother was only meters away
from him, and turned to her for approval to enter.  Before she could nod her
head, Mark was at her side, and gripped her arm in his fist.

“In
you go,” he shouted.  He pulled her forwards, and within seconds they were all
in the office.  Matthew had ran as instructed and sat himself in the oversized
leather chair, and Mark pushed Hannah’s shoulders with just enough force to
make her sit down in one of the smaller, more uncomfortable visitors chairs. 
Matthew sat still, his knees together and feet dangling beneath him, his hands
gripping the armrests.  He wanted to ensure that he did everything that Uncle Mark
told him to do so that he wouldn’t use such bad words against his mother again,
and felt an enormous weight of responsibility resting on his shoulders.  He had
detested many times the unreasonable acts that adults had expected of him, and
had argued his case for not brushing his teeth, for not going to bed, for
avoiding his homework, or for eating anything green that had not been freshly
picked from his own nose.   In such times of disagreement, he had achieved
surprising success on only a handful of occasions, and understanding that on
each occasion his argument had been based mainly on a personal preference
rather than anything justifiable, had attributed his good fortune to luck.  Sat
within the soft leather of the chair, he couldn’t quite explain the feeling,
but there was something different about the situation today.  He recognised
that any argument he constructed had the potential to make things worse.  His
logical thoughts were interrupted by a stomach ache inducing fear as Mark
slammed the door shut behind them, encasing them in the office.

Mark
took off his jacket and threw it against the leather sofa that lined the far
wall.  It fell in a heap, but it left a trail of tension that hung over the
room like an oppressive smog.  He placed her gun on top of the cabinet in the
corner amongst photographs of important political figures, and holstered his at
his side.  Mark had beads of sweat forming on his brow, and he turned, one hand
placed on his hips, the other across his mouth.  He looked at Hannah first, and
then towards Matthew who was sitting staring at the man he had loved playing
football with, wondering how he could be so mean to his mother.

“Matthew,”
he began as he sat on the edge of the desk, facing him.  “I’m going to tell you
a story.  It’s very interesting, and it’s about a little girl called Catherine
Marie Mulligan.  Have you ever heard a story about her before?”  Matthew shook
his head in denial.  Mark turned to Hannah, and with a false sense of shock,
cupped his hand across his mouth.  “You never told him about Catherine Marie
Mulligan?  Well Matthew, let me tell you about this very clever little girl.

“Catherine
was born in Ireland.  You know where that is don’t you?”  He nodded his head.
“Catherine’s daddy was a very important man, and he did lots of very important
work.  And do you know Matthew, that her daddy was so clever that the Queen of
England asked him to leave Ireland and come back to England to work.  In this
very office.  He would come in everyday, do lots of important things that
helped to keep lots of people safe, and Catherine and her mummy would stay at
home.  Sometimes Catherine didn’t even have to go to school.”